


Collected Drabbles - Explicit

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Sex, Caught in the Act, Classcest, Crack, Drabble Collection, F/M, Finger Sucking, Foot Fetish, Footjob, Frottage, Hate Sex, Hickeys, Humor, Large Cock, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pool Sex, Rough Sex, Rule 63, Swimming Pools, Threesome - M/M/M, Tickling, Vaginal Sex, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 3,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles I've written either on whims or from prompts.  All of the drabbles herein are sexually explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intimidating

It’s intimidating at first, the size of him, the size of _it_ , but she’s ready. She’s so very ready. Her wrapped hands trembled a little as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, looking up into those blue eyes, so full of love, so excited to finally share this.

He’s warm, pressing against her, nudging her open softly, but staying mostly still. His big hands pressed into the mattress on either side of her shoulders, Heavy’s lips softly captured hers, a short kiss to assuage her nerves. “Are ready?"

Scout swallowed hard, her breath already unsteady with arousal. Biting her lower lip, she nodded, shifting the grip her legs had on Heavy’s hips. “Yeah, I’m ready, big guy."  
  
Her body thrummed with heat and ripples of sensation as he slid inside, slowly, treasuring every centimeter. He was just as big as she’d feared, as big as she’d looked forward to. Panting, so full, she clung to Heavy tightly, her eyes snapping shut.  
  
"Am not hurting you, am I?" Heavy asked, worried, as the runner quaked beneath him.  
  
"Nah," Scout gasped, her back arching. “I’m good. Now stop goin’ so slow."


	2. Boston Basher

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was written in response to a challenge set forth by my good buddy Wee Mad Hamish. The denizens TF2 servers we play on, The Furry Pound, issued a challenge late one night: to write a sexually explicit TF2 fic in which the activities therein were described using the names of weapons from the game.
> 
> I don't back down from a challenge, least of all from Hamish. Enjoy this cracked-out thing.

“Yeah, you like that? Fuck, you feel so good,” Scout moaned, rocking his hips against his doppleganger's. Heat poured between the two of them, the desert and their lust congealing into a near manmelter, threatening to set their bodies ablaze in the friction of their ardor.

Nails, a backscratcher if there ever were one, dragging down his flesh as the young man below him, his complete mirror, gasped, arching into his touch, the Scout atop him holding their cocks together in his hand as they moved. It was a near overdose of sensation.

The creak of the barn door froze both runners in place, eyes wide, staring at each other in horror before looking to the new source of sunlight pouring into their little love nest.

“Holy mackerel! Gettin' up to some family business, fellas?” Engineer crowed, leaning against the doorway with that crooked grin on his face. Behind him, Spy snorted, looking down at them with derision. “It is true then, we are exact duplicates. It can be the only explanation for why neither of them is armed with anything more dangerous than some pretty boy's pocket pistol between his thighs.”

“Now, now Spy, no need to get all judgmental. I can see where bangin' yer double could be pretty fun. No worryin' about what you look like. It'd be a real equalizer. Though this sort'a thing usually does call for some disciplinary action.” He leered on the identical Scouts, incensed and frightened at the same time, too terrified to move from their lurid position. “Unless you boys are up for a little... sandvich? I could use a quick fix,” he began to unbuckle the straps of his overalls, “show you two some real southern hospitality.”

“Would that sort of hospitality entail some sort of baby face's blaster?” Spy asked, miming wiping semen from his own face.

“Alright, that's it!” The RED Scout snarled, sitting up. “You two, get the fuck outta here right now! Or I'll show both 'a you a little move I call the pain train!”

Engineer and Spy backed off, chuckling, and left, leaving the barn door to swing closed loudly. With a huff, both Scouts settled back in, grabbing hold of their pistols once again. “Now where were we?” the RED asked.

“I dunno, but I wanna get a taste 'a your mad milk. Lay back,” the BLU said, licking his lips.


	3. Holds

Heavy pulled away from Medic's lips, panting, lust clearing slowly from his forebrain. The flushed man below him gasped for air, his spectacles askew, his bottom lip bruised. He tried to construct what had just happened.

It started with a schoolboy rollup, kicked out and transitioned to a boston crab, which was escaped and led to an armbar, a bear hug, and then a drop toe-hold. Then it was a stepover toehold facelock.

And that's where it went cross-eyed, because Heavy's fingers were in Medic's mouth. That warm, welcoming mouth housing his hot, skilled tongue, which laved over his fingers lovingly, suggestively, wrapping around the pads of his fingertips like the underside of a cock. He teased where the frenulum would be, arching up around the tip and then swallowed the whole thing down. The lock had been picked, and before he knew it, Medic was on his back and Heavy was straddling him, grinding against him, holding him down and growling his lust.


	4. Marked

“Uh, Demo? The hell is that?” Scout asked, rounding on his teammate. He inspected the bright red mark, mottled light and dark red with pinpricks of raised blood, stark against Demoman's brown skin, seated just behind his ear, above his red collar in the clearest, plainest of sight.  
  
Demoman slapped his hand over the mark, his eyes wide with realization. He'd left a mark. That barmy sod had left a mark on him, obvious for everyone to see. “What're ye on about, now?”  
  
“That's a frickin' hickey! That's a hickey, ain't it?” the younger mercenary crowed, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Oh shit man, that frickin' hilarious. Hey Snipes! Check it out, Demo's got a hickey!”  
  
Sniper looked up from cleaning his rifle, shaking his head. “Some sheilas get a little excited, mate.”  
  
“You act like I don't know that!” Scout countered, puffing his chest out. “'Sides, think about it, man! Look at that thing! That's fresh! Our last furlough was three weeks ago.”  
  
Shit. Demoman scowled at the younger mercenary, stepping back. He'd been found out. The previous night's rendezvous had left him marked with the memory of his lover's lips and rough stubble, of his body lying atop his lover's, skin stark peach against his own, red and blue fatigues half-removed, clinging to arms and ankles, grinding hot flesh to hot flesh. The evidence of teeth and need and hunger had betrayed him to his fellows.  
  
He turned on his heel, no words to excuse himself or try to explain, simply a mixture of rage and arousal that left him looking for his sticky launcher. He muttered, stomping off for his weaponry. “Oooh, Janey, ye are goin' tae pay.”


	5. Horseplay

“Yeah, oh fuck yeah.”

Water sloshed, clear and glittering in the low light, crashing against the tiled walls of the pool it filled, clinging excitedly to a pair of writhing, identical bodies pressed against the cool tiles. The lights were off, the room lit by a single battery lantern, providing the barest respite against the encroaching shadows.

“Jesus, you're so fuckin' hot.”  
  
“I look just like you.”

“Don't change nothin'.”

Hungry mouths clashed, identical lips pressed together, opening to allow twin tongues to dance. Gripping the edge of the pool, pressing its mirror against the side, a limber body squirmed, rolling hips together, grinding eager erections, leeching heat into the cool water around them. Matching grunts, moans, and gasps filled the quiet room, harmonizing against the gentle slapping of water. Metal tags bobbed between the two bodies, jingling softly.

“I'm close,” one whispered, tilting his head back to allow the other access to his neck, relishing the feel of buck teeth pressing into his sensitive flesh.

“Me too,” the other replied with a short laugh, biting gently at that long, smooth expanse he'd been beckoned to assault.

 

Blinding white ripped through the room, the chemical buzz of sudden fluorescence casting the world in stark, nauseous light. Blinded, the two rutting men curled in on each other, yowling in agony.

"Scout!?" Heavy cried, dropping the hand that had been clasped in his, Medic's, fingers slipping from being threaded together.

The doctor was similarly surprised. "What is this? Who is that? Is that the BLU team's scout?" he roared in outrage, realizing that he was seeing two of the same body pressed against the pool's wall.

"Doc! Heavy! I, ah, um, this ain't what it looks like!"  
  
"It looks like you are having sex with enemy Scout in pool," Heavy reasoned, giving Scout a withering look.

"Come on, a guy gets lonely! And come on, I mean, he's real good lookin', right? You never thought of tryin' it with your double? I-I-I know we ain't supposed to be doin' this here, and he ain't supposed to be here at all, but--"

"Do you have any idea the sort of trouble this could get you in? Both of you? All of us?" Medic chastised, one hand on his hip.  
  
"I, uh--"

"Da, Doktor and I come down for night swim, and find this? Employers will not believe we did not know about this."

"The hell are you two doin' swimmin' this time 'a night anyway? I bet you were comin' down here to do the same thing!"

Medic mouthed wordlessly for a moment, caught. Regaining his speech, he countered, "Not everyone treats team facilities as places to have sex!"

"Yeah, I bet they don't."

Pinned against the wall, hips out of contact with their mate, the BLU Scout sighed in frustration. This was taking forever, and he'd been so close. "Look, you guys, I know it ain't my place an' all, but, uh, can we continue this later? Like, give us ten, fifteen minutes, and you two can shoot me or whatever and have the pool all to yourselves. But maybe we can finish up here? My balls are turnin' blue, for fuck's sake!"


	6. Tickling

Engineer gasped for air, clawing at Sniper's shoulders, pushing against his chest. He squirmed, whimpering and crying out, his body wracked with involuntary convulsions as sharp stabs of gut-wrenching discomfort ripped through him. His breaths came ragged and rough, short and panicked, making him light-headed. His feet were tangled, captured trying to shove Spy away, and beneath the assault of the two men, he was powerless.

“Enough! God! Stop! Uncle!” he cried, flailing indiscriminately, warding off his assailants with the threat of clumsy punches. When both taller men relented, sitting back on their heels, they grinned down at their victim. Engineer lay on the bed, red-faced and sweating, trying to catch his breath. He felt nauseated, his belly roiling. Grimacing, he propped himself up on his hands. “You two are real jerks, you know that? What part of, 'I don't like bein' tickled' don't you two get?”

“I'm afraid it's the part where you are rock hard, mon cher,” Spy countered, grinning.

He hadn't even realized, between the adrenaline and the awful revulsion that was still ebbing through him, but looking down, it was true. He was viciously erect.

Sniper seized the opportunity, wordlessly dipping his head down to wrap his lips around his lover's cock, delighting in the soft groans that welcomed him. Soon, he was joined by Spy, mouthing at the smaller man's balls.

Flopping onto his back, Engineer's hands found their way to the heads of his lovers, his eyes fluttering closed. He'd hollered and railed against their assault, his hatred of tickling well-established, but if this was his reward for suffering through the ordeal, well, maybe it was worth it.


	7. Recursion

Blue eyes, ringed with pale flesh where goggles normally shielded them from the vicious desert sun, looked up into their mirror. They seemed to smile, taking over for the mouth below them, which was happily occupied, wrapped around the plump, warm shaft of Dell's cock. His breaths rattled out of him in shudders, his jaw hanging open, interspersed with soft groans. His hand, the one of flesh and blood, found its way to the back of his doppleganger's shaven head, urging him to take him deeper into his hot, wet throat.

He looked just like him. He sounded just like him. He smelled, felt, and tasted just like him. His RED counterpart was Dell in every way, except that he was not. He was another man, another, perfectly identical man, a twin not of birth but of some miracle of science. Perhaps not a miracle, but a sacrilegious trespass against God and nature. No matter the moral implications, it still stood that Dell was there, pressed against a barn wall and hoping his sentry was still operating, while his perfect double was on his knees, helmet sitting on the floor beside him, lips wrapped around the thick, insistent length of the BLU Engineer's manhood.  
  
Dell pitched forward, spurred on by that tongue he knew so well, the tongue that snaked out to lick his own lips, the tongue that had dueled with its counterpart in his own mouth not minutes prior. He groaned, clutching that copy of his own head, fucking that copy of his own face, spilling his seed into that copy of his own mouth. Flopping back against the wall, he watched dimly as the RED sat back on his heels, pulling off of his cock, and swallowed eagerly, licking his lips. Dell licked his own in response.


	8. Squelch

Scout looked down at his feet with a mixture of amusement and confusion. He could honestly say that he'd never felt such a thing before. Crunching his toes, he watched as the thick, white come coating them squished between them, and chuckled a little at the strange feel and hilarious _squelch_ noise it made.

His partner, a handsome fellow with dark skin and bright eyes who he'd charmed out of the bar and into a motel, sat panting, sheened with sweat, and wholly sated, his eyes fixed on the same sight which Scout was so carefully studying. Between the balls of his calloused feet, the softening head of the stranger's cock rested still, pulsing as blood drained away in the aftermath of his orgasm.

"You, uh, you ever done anything like that before?" the man, not too much older than Scout himself, with a warm voice that thrummed through him now just as it had when he'd been moaning around the mercenary's dick.  
  
"Nah, can't say I have," Scout replied, voice breathy with his own renewed arousal. "Think I'll have to do it again sometime, though." He squished his toes together again and shivered a little at the sensation. "So, uh, speakin' 'a doin' things again," he began, grabbing hold of his hardening shaft and waving it a little to wordlessly complete his thought.


	9. Michael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to the Gaming Heads Sniper figurine listing his name as being "Mick Mundy".

Rough hands slipped beneath the untucked silk of Spy's dress shirt, the last vestige of fabric that hid his body from Sniper's hungry sight. Fingers followed the soft lines of his musculature, tracing abdominals, serratus, and pectorals, straying to slide softly against collarbones until one hand settled at the small of his back, the other coming to rest as the bushman's thumb rubbed circles on Spy's nipple.

The rogue gasped, arching into the touch, eyes half-lidded in his ardor, watching the content, dreamy face of his lover as he drank in the lithe form in his arms. Sniper's tongue snaked out to lick a line across his lower lip, his whole body heaving slowly with each deep breath as he tried to concentrate on Spy's pleasure, on teasing and treating and lavishing him with attention, rather than rip that shirt from his shoulders and rut against him until they were both a sweaty, sticky, sated mess. He leaned in to capture the rogue's neck in a gentle bite above his collar, sinking his teeth in harder as he heard the whimpering gasp that welcomed him.

"Mon dieu," Spy breathed, panting slightly, head lolling back as Sniper's hand trailed down his torso, slipping between his thighs to grasp his aching erection in a firm, strong grip. As that wonderful hand began to pump him, he loosed a soft groan, craning his neck to allow the bushman better access for his bites. "You are perfect, cher. Oh!" Another bite, this time harder, hungrier, worrying at the flesh just below his ear, exactly where Spy liked it best. "Ah, Michael!" he panted, his own hand fisting in the hair at the back of Sniper's head, as if to beg him to never pull away.

Sniper growled. Nobody called him by his first name, and those that did, never by his proper name. To any who knew him beyond 'Sniper', he was 'Mundy', or 'Mick' or on a few occasions, 'Fuckface'. But to Spy, in these moments, these perfect writhing shivering moments of pain and pleasure and absolute bliss, he would speak Sniper's name as it had been given to him at birth. He would keen the names of angel and assassin with absolute reverence, a prayer and a plea, and it was the most beautiful assemblage of syllables ever spoken.

To hear it, perhaps Sniper didn't mind his first name all that much.


	10. Michel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written as a flipside to Michael, at the encouragement of writingcyan and sillyscrunchy

Sniper watched with bated breath and half-lidded eyes as Spy sank to his knees, gripping the fly of the bushman's pants between his teeth and unzipping them swiftly, fingers deftly popping open the button at his waist.

Skilled, leather-clad hands opened the thick denim that encased Spy's prize, tugging Sniper's cock free, pleased to find no underwear to block his access. He breathed deep the musk of the taller man, animal urges taking hold as his scent and his heat brought hormones surging through the rogue, his own aching erection threatening to burst his finely-tailored trousers with the ferocity of its need. His tongue snaked out to taste Sniper, brushing lightly against the head of his cock, making the bushman sigh, his hand coming down to cup the back of Spy's head.

His lover. His bushman. His Sniper. Spy cherished the man as a treasure, a gravel-voiced creature of pure animal sexuality, his sharp-toothed, charismatic prize, a desert flower who bloomed only for him. His handsome Michael Mundy, a man unaccustomed to the sound of his own name. Breathlessly, he whispered his name against the warm shaft in his hands. "Michel."

"Michelle?" Sniper snarled, eyes widening with fire. He glared down at Spy, sudden revulsion welling through him. He'd said the wrong name. Not just that, but a woman's name! "Who the bloody 'ell is Michelle?"

Spy stared up at Sniper, dumbfounded. Realization set in. He didn't realize the name he'd said was his own. With an ignoble snicker spilling through his nose, Spy released his lover, leaning forward onto his own thighs as laughter ripped through him in paroxysms and snorts. Tears sprang to his eyes, his middle aching with the force of his mirth in spite of the scowling Australian standing above him.

"You'd better start talkin'," Sniper snarled, snatching hold of the Frenchman's tie and leveling a rather vicious glare at him.

"You are!" Spy choked out between sobs of amusement. "Michel, you simpleton! Michael! I was saying your name!"

"You what?" Dropping Spy, Sniper's face grew bright red as the realization sat in. Michel was Michael was Mick was Mundy. Spy had purred out a Francophonic version of his own name in his ardor. "Oh shit."

The rogue kneeling before him sputtered upon seeing the look settling upon his lover's face, and fell to the floor, rolling onto his side and holding his belly with both arms as laughter seized hold of him anew. "You are so stupid it's adorable!"


	11. A Little of Both

He had to know.

BLU Spy shuddered, his breaths coming shallow as his body was bent in half, knees held nearly to his chest. He was so full, stretched wide under the punishing assault of the Australian's hungry thrusting.

It was mortifying. Revolting. How unabashed and smug the bastard was. From the moment the Frenchman had dismissively broached the topic, their very meeting cloaked behind a guise of business, he'd looked so self-satisfied. He hadn't lost that smirk even now as he folded Spy up and fucked him ruthlessly, making the rogue whimper and cling to him, burning with shame and ecstasy in equal measure.

He hated him, but he loved this. And he had to know.

Memories flooded back to the fights, to the vitriol, to the dangerous battlefield liaisons that left him quivering and filled with the enemy's seed in one of the myriad secret hiding places that littered the gravel wars. He missed it, but they knew it couldn't continue once their teams had joined and there was no place to hide. So he had to know.

"Wish I'd known I had a French whore on my payroll, I'd have shagged you months ago," Saxton growled, moustache-clad lip twisting into a snarl.

Spy bit back his venom for his employer and lost himself in sensation. The braggart was insufferable, but he'd asked for this.

Because he had to know.

He had to know if all Australians were amazing in bed, or if there was just something special about the RED Sniper.


End file.
